Sweat
Everybody’s a mad scientist, and life is their lab. We’re all trying to experiment to find a way to live, to solve problems, to fend off madness and chaos.— David Cronenberg
Time and time again Derek tried to stop the cry’s voracious chorus as it wound through his ears. It’s relentless screech pealing through both canals and resting deep inside his mind.
Clamping his ears as if trying to squeeze out the noise, Derek began his now familiar mantra. “You’re not there. You’re not there!” And, as always, as if the voice heard him, it went away.
But Derek knew this was merely a ruse. The voice would always reappear when the “master” thought best. “Best for who?” Derek mumbled as a bead of sweat curtailed around his lip and entered his mouth.
*****
Now firmly awake and through the opacity of tears, Derek began his mental checklist. A critical part of beginning his day.
His eyes quickly shifted to the lone light bulb hanging like an anemic stalactite — his starting point. Scanning every pit and hole in the ceiling his passage ended on the north wall. Derek chose this visual inventory to help him confirm his sanity upon awakening. A triptych of sorts. Each imperfection within the lathe and paint a souvenir or reminder of his life now. A life in great need of sense.
Continuing down the wall, a sodium-vapoured light cast a yellowed ribbon across Ray Charles. The photograph wore the bisque lamina like an emperor’s sash. His eyes fluttered rapidly as his muscles fought off the trickle of sweat now entering his eye ducts. Barely able to see, Derek moved his eyes onto the blood stain. The now pallid stain splayed out into tributaries across the wall. Each rivulet eventually fading into nothing. As if consumed by the wall itself.
His “inventory of sanity” finally ended at a mud-encrusted shoe resting slightly elevated from the floorboards. Neatly tucked under its sole stood an old floor tack. Staring intently at the tack, Derek envied its ability to command his thoughts by its sheer hazard. Ending at his bed sheet, Derek paused. His scour complete. Yes, he was awake. Yes, he was alive.
*****
Although relived, the dread continued its slow march to his stomach as he pulled back the salt-stained sheet from his body.
Pivoting to rise out of bed, a memory flushed through his mind overtaking his recently won sanity. As before, his bedsit began its decent into darkness as a thick fog rolled along floor cloaking all in its path.
Then, as clear as a cloudless day, Derek remembered everything. Everything.
*****
It was a hot summer day that caused even his fingers to sweat. This annoyed Derek as he picked away at the gum he had puttied into the underside of the kitchen table’s wood skirt. Perspiration had now caused a viscous layer over the petrified Juicy Fruit making it even harder to reclaim.
The vision continued its clarity as Derek saw his mother steadying herself on the side of the sink. As a child Derek never noticed these bouts of depression. He only remembered his brother Robert muttering, “She certainly has her days.”
His mother’s persistent sobbing never signalled to Derek’s consciousness. For an eight year-old all he ever wanted was attention, and had no idea how to gain it. His mother’s lament was only noise to him. But as Robert was the oldest, he knew something was gravely wrong. Robert always knew.
*****
Being on the road for most the year, their father would look forward to the summers. This was the time he would concede the rigours of meetings and roadside hamburgers, for a month of family fun.
Fun like going to the movies in July. Two hours of sipping ice cold coke in their favourite seats directly under the air conditioning vents. The boy’s father looking content as the cold arctic-like air seeped out of the grill and spilled over their bodies.
*****
The sight of his father slowly faded to black as his mother’s kitchen reappeared. The sense of heat once more draped his memory as he saw himself grabbing the movie section now soiled with Chef Boyardee. Resting his chin on his hands he looks up at his mother, doe-eyes brimming with tears. Waiting for her to speak. Just once more.
Then it came like an angels voice confirming his every wish. “Your brother needs stimulation Robert. Please take him to the movies,” his mom softly requested. “I’m not feeling well and need rest.”
As Derek’s memory began to outdistance his natural cognitions, the voice once more cut through the image. “It’s time. You know it’s time!”
His memory began its quick decent from the kitchen to the Orpheum’s doors. Both doors bellowing open with a horrifying yawn. The sweet smell of butter and popcorn guided him to the convection counter as he dug deep into his pockets only to find a Hires bottle cap and no change. With disappointment, Derek started scanning around the room for his brother. He swore Robert was right next to him.
Within a finger snap, the vision was over.
*****
Panic replaced dread in Derek’s memory as he bolted upright from his bed breathing heavily. Placing his hand on the south wall he steadied himself. His shirt soaked in sweat providing a soggy mop for his brow as he instantly coached his breathing to slow down. He needed to relax just like his therapist taught him.
Counting four beats for every breath, he was back in control and slowly turned to his bedroom window.
Pulling the torn curtain to the left, his pinky-finger-nail snagged the fabric offering intermittent frustration as he looked down onto the street below.
Two in the morning is ominous at Parliament and Dundas. Roadway traffic had all but ended and streetcars expunging their final fares as they meandered slowly out of sight. Only their squeals were able to cut through the calm of the night. Derek envied these mechanical marauders. Bound only by two steel rails as they journeyed through Toronto’s streets.
Looking down Parliament he saw a mysterious pink light resting on the dashboard of a new Camry. It’s light only noticed as a reflection off the pothole’s pool of water.
Lifting up the window his breathing had resumed its normal cadence. It was now dead silent other than the muted clamour of a dumpster’s dreck being discharged blocks away.
As the cool breeze skimmed over his face, Derek heard it for the first time. The voice wasn’t nondescript anymore. It was him. It was Robert.
-End-
